


Until the Earth is Free

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - The Nutcracker Fusion, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Not as dark as these tags imply I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: When Grantaire was very young, he received a nutcracker as a present for Christmas. Well, present was perhaps too kind a word; his father had stumbled upon the little wooden figure in some shop or another, and in a fit of unusually good cheer, had purchased it. Of course, his motive was less than generous, as revealed when he thrust the nutcracker at his young son, chortling. “Look,” he sneered, “someone’s dressed this nutcracker up as a revolutionary. Fitting, that — a failure, just like you are.”Grantaire didn’t mind that it was dressed as a revolutionary. He rather liked the little cockade that sat jauntily on the lapel of nutcracker’s painted red jacket, the red, white and blue sash tied around the figure’s waist, and the saber and pistol that hung from its belt. He even admired the Phrygian cap pulled over the nutcracker’s golden hair.And most of all, he liked the fierce expression painted on the nutcracker’s wooden face, tracing his finger over the bright blue eyes that seemed almost alive in the dim candlelight.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 93
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2019)





	Until the Earth is Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bleulily (wollstoncrafts)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wollstoncrafts/gifts).



> bleulily requested, "I'd like some kind of fairytale au for e/r, maybe something similar to the Nutcracker to celebrate the holidays. I love magical realism, and traveling from mortal realms to more magical places", and I've taken it in a bit of a different direction, but hopefully they enjoy nonetheless!

When Grantaire was very young, he received a nutcracker as a present for Christmas. Well, present was perhaps too kind a word; his father had stumbled upon the little wooden figure in some shop or another, and in a fit of unusually good cheer, had purchased it. Of course, his motive was less than generous, as revealed when he thrust the nutcracker at his young son, chortling. “Look,” he sneered, “someone’s dressed this nutcracker up as a revolutionary. Fitting, that — a failure, just like you are.”

Grantaire’s mother, a soft-spoken woman, nonetheless rose to her son’s defense, protesting that her husband should not speak to him that way. And in the inevitable resulting fight, and to the sound of his mother’s tears, Grantaire retreated, nutcracker in hand.

He didn’t mind that it was dressed as a revolutionary. He rather liked the little cockade that sat jauntily on the lapel of nutcracker’s painted red jacket, the red, white and blue sash tied around the figure’s waist, and the saber and pistol that hung from its belt. He even admired the Phrygian cap pulled over the nutcracker’s golden hair.

And most of all, he liked the fierce expression painted on the nutcracker’s wooden face, tracing his finger over the bright blue eyes that seemed almost alive in the dim candlelight. 

“I don’t think you’re a failure,” he whispered conspiratorially to the little wooden nutcracker. “I bet you’re very brave.” He lowered his voice even more, as if someone might hear him. “I bet you could fight for me, if you were here.” He paused, sadness and loneliness overwhelming him for a moment. “I need someone to fight for me.”

The nutcracker said nothing, but for a moment, as the candlelight danced over its painted face, it almost seemed like his expression became just a little more determined. 

When Grantaire fell asleep that night, it was with the nutcracker cradled in the crook of his arm.

But when he awoke, the nutcracker was no longer in his arms.

Instead, the nutcracker was—

“Alive,” Grantaire gasped, as he watched the Nutcracker — no longer the size it had been before but instead a fully grown man — wielding its sword with terrifying accuracy.

Gone was Grantaire's bedchamber, replaced instead by a sprawling battle, more vibrant than anything Grantaire had laid eyes on. The Nutcracker cut a dashing figure, his red jacket standing out among the crowd of soldiers he fought, alongside several others.

Not soldiers, Grantaire realized, stepping delicately over one of the fallen ones as he almost involuntarily followed the nutcracker into the fray. They were rats, monstrously-sized rats, donning the colors and uniform of the National Guard, and Grantaire watched with an intense sort fascination and more than a little fear as the rats closed in on the nutcracker.

But with a roar so ferocious it made Grantaire jump, a series of other figures descended on the rats, fighting them back. Other revolutionaries, perhaps, and Grantaire wondered for a moment if they too were nutcrackers, until—

CLANG.

One of the rat’s bayonets deflected off the shoulder of one of the revolutionaries, and Grantaire realized they were made of tin. “Tin soldiers,” he whispered, eyes wide. And not just any tin soldiers — _his_ tin soldiers, the one he kept in a box, hand-me-downs from his father in one of his more benevolent moods.

Their ragged uniforms had always made them look like sloppy soldiers but those uniform had the opposite effect here, cravats pulled loose, hats askew aiding as they battled against the rigidly dressed rats.

But while Grantaire was busy admiring the battle, he did not notice as a rat broke off from its unit, rushing toward Grantaire. Grantaire’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out as he tried to run, even though he knew it was too late.

All of a sudden, he ran into a solid, wooden figure, and he stared up at the Nutcracker, who did not hesitate, pulling Grantaire behind him to safety before attacking the rat head on, his sword slicing through the rat’s belly. Grantaire clutched the hem of the Nutcracker’s jacket, peering around him, eyes wide and fearful. “It’s alright,” the Nutcracker said, almost gently.

“Thank you,” Grantaire whispered, and the Nutcracker just gave him a slightly distracted smile before squeezing his hand once and rejoining the fray.

The rest of the battle seemed to pass in the blink of an eye as Grantaire stared down at his hand, feeling warmth like he had never imagined radiating from the Nutcracker’s gentle touch, and he only looked up when the sounds of the battle faded into a terrible sort of silence.

The Nutcracker stood, surrounded by the tin soldiers, his pistol cocked and pointed at the Rat King, who kneeled before him. “Think or pray,” the Nutcracker told him gravely. “You have one minute.”

If the Rat King said anything, Grantaire did not hear it. He heard only the sound of the Nutcracker’s pistol, a minute later, and his own gasp was lost to the cacophony of cheers from the assembled victors.

But the Nutcracker did not join in their cheers, even as he thrust his pistol and sword back into his belt. Instead, he waited for their cheers to subside before telling them, “I make use of Death, but it is not Death we should be celebrating here. Instead, we must celebrate the future we aim to achieve, and know that the future belongs to the best and most simple of things: life, and love.”

With that, he allowed his fellows to return to their merriment, even joining in, laughing and dancing with the rest. Caps were thrown high in the air and arms were thrown down on the ground, no longer needed, and Grantaire slowly smiled as he watched the celebration.

His smile turned shy when the Nutcracker made his way toward him. “Thank you, again,” he said softly. “You have saved my life.”

“If I have saved your life, it is only because I know you will do great things with it,” the Nutcracker told him, patting him heavily on the shoulder.

Grantaire hesitated for only a moment before reaching up and grabbing the Nutcracker’s hand. “Please, sir,” he said softly, “please return with me. I need your help.”

He spent the next few minutes babbling an explanation of every fear and hurt that awaited him back in the real world, and the Nutcracker listened patiently, his wooden expression impassive. When Grantaire had finished, the Nutcracker sighed and shook his head. “I wish I could help,” he said sadly. “But I cannot leave this realm. We may have won this battle, but there is still a war to be won.”

“How long will it take for you to win the war?” Grantaire asked, his voice small.

“We will fight until the Earth is free,” the Nutcracker replied. “We fight in this realm, just as it is on you to fight out there.”

Grantaire shook his head. “But what if I can’t do that?” he asked.

The Nutcracker didn’t seem to understand the question. “You must fight,” he said. “There is no other choice.” He took a step back from Grantaire. “Now go,” he ordered. “Go, and fight.”

“But—” Grantaire started to protest, but before he could any further word out, he woke up, lying in his bed in his parents’ house, the wooden nutcracker once again cradled in his arms.

Grantaire stared down at the little figure, willing it to come to life once more, to help him. “Fight,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to the nutcracker or to himself. “You must fight.”

The nutcracker didn’t answer, and Grantaire eventually fell back into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Every Christmas that followed that one, Grantaire hoped that he would dream again, that he would see the Nutcracker again, determined that he might convince him to come to his world, determined that he needed his help to fight. But for each Christmas that followed, the nutcracker remained just that: a small wooden figure with a lifeless, painted face.

And with every Christmas that passed, as he traded the sorrows of his childhood for the demons of adulthood, Grantaire lost a bit of hope. Hope that the nutcracker might again come to life, hope that he might one day find it in himself to fight…

Eventually, he told himself, bitterly, that he had only ever imagined it, dreamed of a savior that would never come. And imagining such things would do him no good here in the real world. Not when he had the bottom of a bottle to chase instead.

Still, even with his hope disappearing, Grantaire could never bring himself to get rid of the nutcracker. No matter how hard of times he fell upon, looking at the little painted revolutionary was almost enough to keep Grantaire believing.

Until, that is, he fell asleep one Christmas Eve and woke to know instantly that his wildest dream had again come true.

The scene was, in so many ways, identical to the one Grantaire remembered from his childhood, the same National Guard rats fighting against his ragtag assembly of tin revolutionaries, though he’d long since lost those. And in the middle of the fray, his beloved Nutcracker, standing tall and taking down rats left and right.

This time, when the battle concluded and the Nutcracker had killed the Rat King, Grantaire did not wait for the Nutcracker to come to him, instead pushing through the celebrating crowd until he reached him. The Nutcracker’s eyes brightened as he saw him. “You came back,” he said, and Grantaire didn’t hesitate, pulling the Nutcracker to him and kissing him.

He balled his hands in the ragged red jacket and held tight, afraid to let go, afraid that if he did, the Nutcracker and this world would disappear. When he finally felt safe letting go, he loosened his grip but did not step away, not fully, instead reaching up to trace his fingers over the Nutcracker’s wooden cheek. “Surely your fight must be done now,” he said breathlessly.

But the Nutcracker captured Grantaire’s fingers in his own hand, his expression turning sad. “It is not yet done,” he said softly. 

Grantaire shook his head. “But the Rat King—”

“I told you before,” the Nutcracker said, holding Grantaire’s hand between both of his, “I fight until the earth is free.”

Grantaire shook his head, desperation clawing at his throat. “But you cannot free everyone,” he protested. “No one can! There is too much wrong and broken in the world for any one person to fix!”

“Maybe so,” the Nutcracker told him, tucking a strand of Grantaire’s hair behind his ear. “But still I must try. Until, at the very least, you are free.”

Again Grantaire shook his head. “Free?” he repeated. “Free from what?”

But the Nutcracker did not answer, merely lifting Grantaire’s hand to his lips and pressing a light kiss to the tips of his fingers.

Then Grantaire woke.

Even before looking, he knew what he would find — the nutcracker was gone.

Grantaire was alone.

And he lay in his bed and wept.

* * *

The next day, when Grantaire was finally able to pull himself from his grief, he stumbled to a café that appeared to be open despite the holiday, the Café Musain, per its painted sign, and he took it as the last vestiges of his good luck that at the very least he might have a warm café in which to drink himself to death.

But when he opened the door, he almost instantly ran into someone who reached out automatically to straighten him. “I say, are you alright?” the man asked, and Grantaire opened his mouth to answer before pausing, something familiar clicking in the recesses of his mind.

He knew this man, knew the jacket he wore and the barely tied cravat around his neck, for this was, somehow, one of his tin soldiers, one of the ones who had come to life to fight alongside the Nutcracker. “I’m Courfeyrac,” the man offered, but Grantaire just stared at him. “Have you come to join our meeting?”

Courfeyrac did not wait for Grantaire to reply, just ushering him towards the back of the café. Grantaire’s eyes darted from side to side, recognizing more and more of his tin soldiers in the figures sitting at tables or leaning against the bar. There was the one he’d made a little cane for, once during his childhood after he’d felt guilty about accidentally sitting on the soldier’s leg and making it crooked, and wasn’t he sitting next to the tin soldier who’d lost his hat and hair in an unfortunate incident with the cat?

His heart pounded painfully in his chest as he saw the familiar faces from his dreams, for if they were here, if his tin soldiers were here, and real, and alive, then surely that must mean—

And then his eyes landed on the table in the corner, where a blond-haired man in a red jacket sat.

Grantaire’s knees almost buckled and Courfeyrac grabbed his arm, holding him upright. “Are you certain you’re fine?” Courfeyrac asked, concerned. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

But Grantaire just waved him off, instead making his way unsteadily over to the blond man, who looked up at his approach, his expression as fierce and determined as the wooden nutcracker’s had been. “Have you come to join our cause?” the man asked, his voice sounding just as the nutcracker’s had.

“I am not much one for fighting,” Grantaire said, searching the man’s expression for any hint of recognition, though he knew better than to hope for one.

“And yet sometimes fighting is what must be done,” the man told him, arching one perfect eyebrow. 

Grantaire half-smiled. “Well, while you fight out there, I suppose I must fight in here,” he said, aware that he must sound quite cryptic but hoping his words might stir the memory of the blond man.

But they didn’t. If anything, his words only made the man angry, his brow furrowing as he stood, glaring at him. “I do not appreciate your tone,” he said warningly, “as if you wish to make light of our fight.”

“Your fight which will never end and which you will never win?” Grantaire returned, amused, for how many times had he dreamed this conversation, dreamed of being able to deliver these words?

And they had their desired effect, as the man’s eyes flashed and he started toward Grantaire. But a man in a blue jacket caught the blond’s arm. “Enjolras,” he said warningly, and Grantaire repeated the name to himself.

Enjolras.

It suited him.

The anger faded from Enjolras’s face, replaced by condescension. “Whether or not we win matters not,” he said imperiously. “What matters is that our fight must continue—”

“Until the Earth is free,” Grantaire finished, with a small, sad smile. 

Enjolras looked at him sharply, and a smile of his own curved the corners of his mouth. The sight made Grantaire feel as if every broken piece of his life had suddenly fallen into place. “Here I thought you might be a cynic,” Enjolras said, “but it sounds as if you do believe.”

Grantaire barked a laugh. “Oh, I am a cynic,” he assured him. “But I do believe I may also find a way to be a believer.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed, but before he could ask any more, he was pulled away into a different conversation, leaving Grantaire by himself. But Grantaire didn’t mind, getting himself a drink and joining one of the tables so that he could stay and witness the meeting.

When he returned home later that night, he no longer felt alone, even without the nutcracker there to greet him.

He had found something better.

Something far more real.

And as he fell asleep that night, he wondered for a moment if this was the freedom the Nutcracker had referred to, the freedom Grantaire would need to fight for.

Whatever it was, he planned on seeing it through to the end.

He had come this far, after all, and he would follow his Nutcracker — or Enjolras, or perhaps both at once — into whatever battle he led.


End file.
